I love this bag. I think you would love this bag too. This bag has been in our lives for a long time. It’s come to the beach. It’s moved homes. It’s taken dirty clothes to the laundromat and donated clothes to the shelter (this is a double edged sword. I feel good about donating clothes, then I feel bad for asking for my bag back. Oh well).

This bag cost 40 cents when I first started using it, then 99 cents. Then they reinvented it and asked $5.99 for it (they added a zipper). Then there was a revolt and the 99 cent version came back. All was well in the world.

In my opinion..this bag is as useful as my iPhone. Yes. Yes it is. Stop shaking you head. And it’s healthier for me too. I don’t stare at it for hours a day. It may even be better than Instagram…maybe that’s going to far.

This bag has gone camping, been muddy, been wet. This bag has hauled blankets and pillows and towels. There’s almost nothing it can’t do.

And the handles. The handles! Two to choose from. One short. One long enough to put over your shoulder.

IKEA has given us lots of wonderful things. Beds for $20, shelves in 1,000 pieces, meatballs definitely not made of horse meat. But this bag takes the cake. The Swedish cake.

So my husband started a new job a few months ago and now he has to drive about 30 miles to work each way. Against my better judgement I’ve given my fuel/environment friendly Subaru to him, and in return, I get to drive around his beloved Jeep.

It’s pretty cool. Really good sound system. IF I wanted to blast the music I could. It’s in my favorite color of all time, and because its never seen a pool or beach pick-up or 7 hour trip to Vermont – it’s shiny and clean. Bonus – according to my daughter, it makes me look BA. You know. Bad ass.

The only slightly annoying part of driving around this car is the hand waving I have to do. Are you familiar with this? Do you know that every time one Jeep passes another Jeep they wave at each other? It’s part of the cult…er…culture. No, not like a mother-sending-a-kid-on-the-bus wave – this is a cooler, smaller gesture. It’s unspoken communication between the two drivers that says,” any minute now I could leave this Target parking lot and head right up a mountain. Or drive through a river” or something.

It’s all very stressful.

First of all I can’t get the timing right. By the time I pass another Jeep and see that person waving it’s too late. Then I feel bad. Shameful. I’m letting them down. All of them.

Then the times I remember and the other person doesn’t wave back I obsess. Why didn’t they wave back? Do they know I’m a fraud? Do they see my Subaru soul?

And there are a LOT of freaking Jeeps in our town. A ton. There’s constant waving, threats of waving, post-waving guilt happening every time I leave the house. It’s exhausting.

I know Volvo people are freaks too. But at least they keep their freak flag to themselves.

On a side note – my husband has admitted to waving at a few Jeeps from the Subaru out of habit. That made me feel better.

It’s been a slow trek back from vacation. And it seems like I’m not the only one. I hope you took some time off last week – even if it was just the one day (Independence day for the US and Canada Day in, well, Canada).

I know other folks have been having fun too. I know because I see the posts, the check-in’s, the status updates, the tweets. This is why I love technology. And this is why I really love Facebook. Pictures of babies, food, trips, renovations – bring it all. You know when you want to post how much you hated that movie you saw tonight and you stop yourself and think,”no one cares what I think about this movie” – I care. Go ahead and post it. I’m dying to read it.

You went to a family reunion last weekend? Great – let’s see the potato salad you brought over. You’re third cousin twice removed had a baby – she’s adorable. Keep posting those holiday outfit shots.

I’m not on it to talk you into any of my personal, religious or political views. I’m on it to be nosy. Nosy about things that I care about. Like what color you painted your dining room. Or to do what I like to call – photo eavesdropping. You know what I’m talking about.

My mother thinks Facebook is the devil. The door left open for psychos to come walking into your life. She might be right. But when I weigh that against my need to know all about your day/hour/second…it just isn’t that scary anymore.

I also love keeping connected to old and new relatives and friends.

When my daughter started high school we finally let her join the “network”. She promptly decided Facebook was not her speed when she found out her mother, her father, and all her aunts and uncles are all over it too.

This picture is circa 2000.
I had just gotten a job at a Fortune 500 in NYC. After two years of being at home with my baby, I was back at work as an event planner and loving it. Technically I wasn’t a planner until a year later – in the beginning I was an admin.
An admin to an insane, crazy, brilliant woman who ran our group. The woman who gave me a 45 minute lecture on using colored folders instead of beige folders (the colors distracted her as she walked by my cube). The woman who called me from the Tarmac while boarding a flight to tell me she doesn’t like prop planes and why hadn’t I known that and I better fix it ASAP (I couldn’t because there were only prop planes flying to this part of Colorado. I had offered to book her a car the day before when I warned her about this but she hadn’t been listening, something about researching the perfect toilet – no joke).
But all those moments that would have driven me to quit turned into funny stories we shared. Funny war stories at the lunch table.
We worked really really hard. Almost 24/7. Weekends. Holidays. For no money. It was rough.
But every day, we had lunch together – the whole group. There are a few ladies missing from this pic but this was the core group. We also had a Swiss National and a Brit.
We bitched, we ranted, we raved, but most of all – we laughed.
This restaurant lunch was a rarity. Almost all lunches were either in the cafeteria or at a table on our floor.
No one from other groups ever joined – probably because they weren’t invited. This was anti-networking. This was cocooning.
The majority of the lunch was used to make fun of each other. And there was plenty of material. Marriages, weirdo eating habits, childhood traumas – all ripe for the picking. We left our egos in our cube. Belly laughter ensued.
Then we’d go back to working our asses off.
There were weddings, babies, break-ups, promotions, and more.
The crazy boss lady left. And shockingly, in hindsight, I would miss her. Aside from the batshit crazy episodes, I learned a lot from her. And from all those ladies.
It was and continues to be the best job I ever had.

This is a state park near us. We go to walk, to picnic, to lay about – actually that’s what I go for.

My family goes there to bike.

I think I’ve told you before. Haven’t I? It’s no biggie. Everyone has something. Some people can’t eat a peanut. Some can’t have dairy (the horror). Some are diabetic. I too have a debilitating challenge. I can’t ride a bike. Well, technically I may be able to actually ride a bike without killing myself, but I really really don’t want to.

My family tried to have an intervention a couple of years ago. They were horrified for me. My husband lived on his bike throughout his childhood. Both my kids adore their bikes. They gave me a long list of reasons why I’d love it. The freedom! The independence! So I finally caved in and they bought me a fancy bike. Took me out every night to practice. And I tried. I acted excited. I seemed enthused. It was awful.

I don’t like riding a bike. It makes me nervous. It makes me feel out of control. It gives me zero happiness. Freedom and independence are not for me. Sorry.

This causes great sadness in my family. I’m like a traitor among them. An alien. They’ll never be able to ride like a full family.

At about this time, my mind and body starts craving/dreaming/needing a vacation. Somewhere different. Preferably to a place where trains are called metros and where you can stay in a flat instead of an apartment. Or maybe a tropical turquoise retreat where I can drink from a coconut and lay on beach.

A place where I can be Vacation Mom and Vacation Wife. The one that doesn’t worry and nag and yell and order. The one that lets you buy obscenely pricey gum from the gift shop and stay up until you feel like falling asleep. The one that doesn’t care if anyone has brushed their teeth or combed their hair. She’s awesome. I miss her.

But in order to transform into this groovy, go-with-the-flow chick we need to get the hell out of dodge first.

And in order to do that we need to find a place to go.

And every time we find a place I am compelled to that damn website to check out the reviews.

It never ends well for me.

Everyone has an opinion, and I read every last one.

MaryS from Wichita thinks the rooms at a certain resort in Puerto Rico aren’t clean enough.

George from New Jersey didn’t like any of the restaurants but loved the pool at his hotel in Hawaii.

clevergirl8 from Texas loved Peru but had a horrible time with customs at the airport.

I try to focus on just the positive. You can’t make everyone happy, I say to myself.

But then I toss and turn and doubt. And doubt.

Are people just really really picky?

I realize that I could never have been one of those people backpacking through Europe or Asia or Idaho. I need research. Data. Background. I need to know that others have gone before me and had a good time. Or not.

So we’ll make our plans for vacation and it’ll be very exciting, but deep down I’ll be thinking about MikeP from Albany, who thought Dublin was beautiful except for the hotel concierge who was a bit grumpy the whole time.

I give Tripadvisor.com 3 out of 5 stars. Lots of consumer information which usually results in the firm knowledge that no matter where you are going or what you are doing – it could have been better somewhere else.